Perpetuate
by Maya Sushi
Summary: I was whispering the elements aloud. Tell the world. Ill do it. Tell the world. Ill finally win. Screw the world. Im going to do it. Failure was not an option. Each line was perfect. My breath rattled and my heart shook but my hand stayed steady.
1. The Beginning

_**Disclaimer:** _I do not in any way, shape, or form, own Fullmetal Alchemist or any of the respective characters.

~!#$%^&*()_+

_**The Beginning...**_

…was the plan.

The beginning was the day that I had stolen everything away from my brother.

The beginning was when I had killed my mother.

The beginning was when I finally decided what had to happen.

The beginning was when I knew what I needed to do, knew what I deserved.

The beginning was when I finally made at least one right decision in my entire, pathetic excuse for a life.

The beginning was the plan.


	2. The Plan

_**Disclaimer: **_I do not own Ed or Al or anyone else. Owning people is wrong. It's practically slavery. I do however, own a computer. And it _is_ my slave. (Though is doesn't often listen very well)

_**A/N:**_ Short first chapter! Right? Yes. This one's longer. You're welcome. I'm welcome. I also have made Edward go a little crazy. But only a little. Not too much. :) Just enough.

* * *

_**The Plan...**_

…was simple enough.

35 liters of water. 20 kilograms of carbon. Four liters of ammonia. One-and-a-half kilograms of lime. 800 grams of phosphorous. 250 grams of salt. 100 grams of niter. 80 grams of sulfur. Seven-and-a-half grams of silicon. 100 grams of saltpeter. 15 other trace elements.

_"You're not my body, I can't come with you."_

Three steps. Analysis. Destruction. Reconstruction. To understand the structure and properties of the element that is about to be transmuted. To break the substance down to its rudimentary properties. To rebuild the substance in another form, or with different properties. Observation. Decomposition. Re-composition.

To obtain, something of equal value must be lost.

The circle represents the constant flow of energy. Catalysts for alchemical reactions. All the energy of the Earth, the dead, the living, flowing around in an endless circle. Body, spirit, mind. A connection.

Really, the concept was easy enough to grasp. The hardest part was getting Alphonse in the circle.

I drew each line in my own blood. My hand was steady and balanced. If everything wasn't absolutely perfect this might not work. Failure was not an option. Not at this point. I felt faint and stumbled whenever I stood up too fast or turned a little too sharply. I was pale and drawn. Gaunt cheeks. Long sleeves. Sneak away. Blood red paint.

Only once did I pass out before I made it back to the dorm.

Found the next morning. Bloody arms. There was a cigarette in the man's mouth. He was familiar.

"Chief? What the fuck did you do?"

Havoc.

My hands grasped aimlessly. Finding the lapels of Havoc's standard-issue royal blue greatcoat. He flinched away. There was blood on my hands. I was dizzy, half-gone. Havoc's mouth was wide with some expression I couldn't read because I was too tired, too weak. My brain had no time for this, the formula was there. I was whispering the element aloud. Tell the world. I'll do it. Tell the world. I'll finally win. Screw the world. I'm going to do it. Failure was not an option. Each line was perfect and beautiful, fragile. My breath rattled and my heart shook but my hand stayed steady.

Water. Carbon. Ammonia. Lime. Phosphorous. Salt. Niter. Sulfur. Fluorine. Iron. Silicon. Saltpeter. H2O. C. NH3. CaO. P. NaCl. KNO3. S. F. Fe. Si. KNQ3.

"Chief?" Havoc whimpers at me. It's uncharacteristic of him and I wonder why. But I don't have time to think about trivial things like that.

Salt Peter. Potassium Nitrate. Sal petrae. Density: 2.109 g/cm cubed. Melting point: 334 degrees Celsius. Boiling point: 400 degrees Celsius. Soluble in ethanol. Soluble in glycerol. Soluble in ammonia. Odorless. White solid.

"You're scaring me," Havoc says. He doesn't sound so weird and out of character this time. He says the words matter-of-fact and curt. There's some underlying emotion but I can't bring myself to care enough to analyze it. It's good that he's not being quite as confusing this time. I don't have time to be wondering "why"'s and "for what reason"'s.

Ammonia. Hydrogen nitride. Strong pungent odor. Colorless gas. Melting point: -77.73 degrees Celsius. Boiling point: -33.34 degrees Celsius. Acidity: 38, H2O; 41, DMSO. Basicity: 4.75.

"Ed. Edward. Stop it!"

My lips froze with the next word that balanced, waiting impatiently on the edge of my poised tongue. I moved my gaze up toward Havoc's own and I found fear. What was he afraid? Suddenly I realized that he would tell Alphonse that he had found me here. He would ruin it all. My hands clenched harder against his collar. Pulling him closer, whispering in his ear.

I swear that if you breathe a word of this to Alphonse, I hiss, you'll regret it.

I wasn't sure what I would do, but apparently the threat had been convincing enough. Maybe it was my icy tone, hard as steel. Maybe it was the blood on my hands. Arms. I was wasting time.

I turned on my heels, leaving Havoc in my wake. I have no room in my mind to regret threatening the man. I doubt that I would have regretted it anyway. It was not an empty threat. I had meant it.

Clean up. Get home. Long sleeves. Clean hands. Smile for Alphonse.

"Brother, where were you last night?" Al never sleeps. Al can't sleep.

Out, I answer, and then laugh. Fake like plastic. Lies. Kidding, I assure him. Excuse. I was at the library and I fell asleep and no one even bothered to wake me up! I sounded startled, maybe a little angry, and I flashed another grin.

"Alright," Al said, the worry gone from his voice.

I'd like to thank everyone who's helped me so far. My acting career would never have prospered without you. Oh, goodness, this is too much. An award? I'm flattered! Honored! Love you guys.

I smile at my acceptance speech I recite in my head, quite a bit of sarcasm included. A little bit of dry humor to brighten up my day. I can't settle down. I can't calm down. Not until I do this.

"What do you want to do today?" Al asked, cheerily, "And did you find what you were looking for at the library?"

I wasn't looking for anything in particular, I reply, waving my gloved hand through the air. There are hastily applied bandages all around my left hand, you can see the fabric of my glove bulging out. Al doesn't notice. I know what we should do today! I exclaim, feigning excitement. I honestly am excited though. Millions of calculations moving through my mind. My pulse quickens and I feel myself biting my lip in anticipation. I stop when I taste blood on my tongue and such my bottom lip into my mouth to stop Al from noticing. I had to calm down.

But I couldn't. Not until I do this.

Pulse quickens. Heart pumping. Steel face. Flesh hand. Screw the world. I'll do it. I'll show everyone.

That's what dog fighting was all about. Despair. Rage. Fury. Hate. Desperation. When you got down to it.

You can only kick an animal down so many times before it gets angry and kills something.

Death. Life.

It's a surprise. I'm taking you somewhere special, I smile and tell him. I look around the room for a moment before pulling the sheet off of my bed. White. Dark. Black. Light. Blindfold? I ask, sounding playful, light, optimistic. Al chuckles and agrees, because it seems like a game and this is the happiest he's seen me in a few days.

Getting Al in the circle was the hard part. But really, not too hard.

Dark room. Scent of blood. Al can't feel. Al can't smell. "Where are we?"

Just play along, I'm surprised when my tone sounds curt and straight forward.

Al sounds uneasy, "Can I take the blindfold off yet?"

No, I say, not yet. I must not sound convincing. Al's body language is screaming that he's scared now and he pulls off the sheet.

A huge circle. Bloody red lines. A suit of armor in the center. A brother at the edge. Alphonse froze, petrified, looking around himself fearfully.

"Brother? What?"

Too long, it's been too long, I have to fix you.

"How? What are you? Is this blood?"

I figured it out, I say, a hint of mania betrayed in my voice. But Screw the world, I'll do it. I figured it out, I say again, and I press my hands to the circle.

The plan was simple enough.


	3. The Procedure

_**Disclaimer: **_I do not own FMA or the stupid things that Edward does out of love.

_**A/N: **_It does seem, to me, that I claim Prosopopoeia is the mistreated child. That it is beaten and abused. But that would be a lie. Because at least I acknowledge its presence. This story, however, has been thoroughly and entirely ignored by me.

I'd like to address the fact that so many of my stories are based around Edward somehow harming himself in order to gain Edward's body back. And I just can't stop! It's certainly my favorite thing to write about, sure it's cliché, I suppose, but I still am never satisfied with the amount of fictions that actually have him doing so. They always turn out happy in the end :( That's no fun.

* * *

_**The procedure was...**_

… a success.

The procedure. Yes, the maneuver. The machination. The wicked cabal and plot. It was a success.

Of course, nothing could have made me happier.

Justified in the fact that I had accomplished what I had set out to do, I felt extreme joy upon seeing my brother again. This was the one sight I had wanted too see for years. That of which I had been denied again and again and again. This monotonous cycle had ended with the realization that that was exactly what it was. A rut of repitition that would not be shook. A challenge. A dare. I don't know why I could not have thought of this earlier, years earlier. The guilt of my brother's confinement within an abiotic body might be eased but the guilt was still there, manifesting in a different form entirely. And it asked me, accusingly, "Why now?". If it had ultimately been this _painfully _simple, then it should have been on the agenda ages ago.

In the end all it really took was a business-like approach and a spar of words. An agreement. And exchange. Equivalency.

I stood before the gates of Truth and I demanded to be heard. And he, the Truth, the God, the One, Me, You, Alphonse, whoever he was, was willing to talk.

Simple equivalency, I offer.

He would almost seem as if he were intruiged by me, but I know better. Blank faces. Calm words.

I say, for four years I have had his soul but not his body. That is four years of life _lived_that he has had stolen from him, yes?

_"'Stolen' is not the necessary terminology I would use if I were you. And I am," _he pointed a finger at me, _"because **we** stole, not me."_

The fact still remains, I tell them, and then, I propose an exchange,

How he'd figure I was worth anything close to what Alphonse is worth astounds me.

What a dumb ass.

Al, I called, placing my hand gently on his cheek. Bloody arms. Bloody hands. The deep cuts that littered my arms had reopened, and were presently attempting to soil my brother's porcelain skin. I cursed myself. How could I strive to ruin such beauty?

"Ed?"

His eyes are open, grey-blue and shining in the darkness. For a moment I feel a little more like myself and suddenly what seems like years of crushing pressure building up on my shoulders falls away. Feathery light like snow. I feel happy, oh-so-happy, and sad too, but in a bittersweet kind of way. There are tears prickling behind my eyes, salty and adimant. I haven't cried in three years, I think, and out loud I say, I love you Alphonse, and I break out in a heart wrenching sob.

"Brother, you did it!" Al was so happy. I was hugging him and bawling my eyes out and surely he must think that I'm absolutely pathetic for this little display, "You did it, you did it," he whispers again, like he can hardly believe it himself, before his arms –

– two real, flesh-and-blood-and-and-tendons-and-ligaments-and-bone arms –

– wrap tightly around me and Al wails out into the dark. Water cascades down his cheeks and we sit and cry, holding one another until the next morning. Bloody arms. Tear stained cheeks. Loving embrace.

* * *

It's not long before we are interrupted. This, you see, is my fault entirely. As Jean Havoc, upon my departure from him, had opted not to tell _Alphonse_, but instead to tell_ Mustang._ I cannot claim I told him not to.

How he found us is still a mystery to me. But I suppose when you check enough abandoned factories in Central you're bound to find a teenager attempting human transmutation somewhere.

Not attempt. Success.

By the time he reached us, I was not exactly in my right mind. Everything was skipping by me at high speeds. I was faint from losing too much blood and seeped of all energy from the sheer amount of effort required for the transmutation. I, in fact, was even astounded at my ability to remain conscious when something I do not want to miss a moment of is finally in front of me. Alphonse. Rising chest. Blinking eyes. Living boy.

"Edward!" Roy calls at the sight of the blood. Alphonse has fallen asleep in my arms. The first thing I think of to do is shush him.

"Holy shit," Havoc mutters, as realization dawns upon him.

Riza makes his fragment a completed thought. Hypothesis. Theory, "he did it."

Indeed I have. Success.

The favorable or prosperous termination of attempts or endeavors. A successful performance or achievement. A person or thing that is successful. A favorable outcome.

It's a verb. And I've done it.


	4. The Outcome

_**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Fullmetal Alchemist or pretty words like _angst. _But I like both of them. Don't you?

_**A/N: **_Woah, forever? Yeah? Okay.

* * *

_**The Outcome Was...**_

...Alphonse Elric. Male. Five feet and seven inches tall. One hundred and twelve pounds. Ligaments and lymph nodes and joints and metacarpals and phalanges and pelvic girdle all in one little malnourished frame.

One human boy.

One human soul.

One brother.

Alphonse Elric, who's chemical makeup consisted purely of: sugar and spice and everything nice.

Look mother, our bouncing, blonde haired, blue eyed, little boy. Isn't he wonderful?

Aren't you proud of me?

You're right, let's not be silly.

The human body is made of fat, water, protein, carbohydrates, vitamins, and minerals. On average, sixty percent of a body's weight is water, twenty percent is body fat, and twenty percent is a combination of carbohydrates, minerals, vitamins, and other naturally produced biochemicals. The human metabolome is huge. The totality of metabolites from the human body. Inconceivable. Metabolites are small chemicals produced within, or found within an organism. There are at least two-thousand-five-hundred metabolites, one-thousand-two-hundred drugs, and three-thousand-five-hundred food components that can be encountered within the human form.

Millions of cells, that are constantly replicating themselves. Making copies. That's what we are. That's what my outcome was. A single cell, time one million.

The estimated gross molecular content of a typical twenty micrometer human cell consists of 98.73% water, 0.475% lipids, 0.011% protein, 3 x 10−5% RNA, 3 x 10−11% DNA, 0.74% other inorganics, and 0.044% other organics.

The body quickly makes itself anew. We're all like snakes, shedding our old skins and slipping into new ones, growing into the skin that forms around us. We're constantly shedding, changing, peeling, dripping. Falling apart.

The hard part is putting the body together again.

I let them take him out of my arms, but not without a certain amount of reluctance. They mean well, I know this, but I'm so afraid that I put something together wrong, that I didn't do it right, that they'll break him. I don't want anyone touching him until I'm one-hundred percent sure that he's going to be alright, that he's going to be okay, that's everything's going to be okay. Yes, I let them take him, and only put up a little bit of a fight. Not much. But Havoc's nose is broken and twisted later, blood pouring down his jaw, and Mustang has a black eyes and a split lip for days afterward. Havoc's right arm is broken, and Riza's got a sprained ankle. Though I'm not entirely sure that part was my fault.

I wish I would have gotten a few more swings at Roy before I got too dizzy and fell.

There is roughly five liters of blood within the human body, once you lose around forty percent of that, that's when you're pretty much done for.

Nah, I'm not there yet. But I don't have that much body to fill, what with missing a few big parts, so sometimes things go a little quicker.

I lose sight of Alphonse much sooner than I would like, and I lose consciousness just as quickly.

* * *

_**A/N: **_Really, really short, huh? Well, that's this story I suppose. At least if I finally make justify that in my head maybe I'll get chapters out faster. It's okay that its short Maya. It's supposed to be short Maya... But... It's just so... Short.

Oh well. Read and review and peace and love and all that good shit, right? You guys are the best ;)


	5. The Price

_**Disclaimer: **_Noooooooo sir, in my dreams. But probably wouldn't be allowed to own FMA there either :) I disclaim this chapter as well as my dreams.

_**A/N: **_Oh!

* * *

_**The Price Was...**_

...those three years, the one-thousand-and-ninety-five days and seventy-five-hundredths of another of life that I had stolen. Well, I would collect on the outcome of that bet. Ad in exchange, he could have the last of my life.

Alphonse's body had been stuck at the gate for tree long years, as was formentioned, and all I did was propose a trade.

I took his soul from you, I told the Truth – it had rightfully been his, at that moment, after all – and you've had his body. So now we trade. I want his body, and you can have a soul.

"Without a soul your brother's body will not live," the Truth told me in a calm, contemplative voice, "his life will be incomplete."

Not _his_ soul, I'd amended, horrified at the implication, mine.

* * *

_**A/N: **_Yes, I promise the next one will be longer. But these pop up sometimes, y'know?


	6. The Life I Lived

_**Disclaimer:**_ Iiii doo noottt owwwnnn FFFFMMMAAA.

_**A/N: **_Mhmmm... mhm... mmmmmmmhmmmmmmmmmm... uh huh? uh.. huuuhhhh... yes... mhmm...

_**

* * *

**_

_**The Life I Lived Was...**_

...short.

That's funny, short... Really, though.

Good too. An expiration date could really do some good. Mine said February 3rd, 1924, and it was written in my brother's blood. A symbol that reminded me that I was a careless sinner, a murderer with no regard for life, and at the same time told the story of how I had given my own life to fix things. I was happy with this, really, and I wouldn't have told anyone. Content to keep the secret until my rapidly approaching untimely death. But Alphonse was simply so irrefutable. I could never lie to him.

I was upset with myself afterward, guilty until the very day that I died. But what was so new about that?

"What did you _give?" _Al was screaming, lungs tearing, so loud, so hopeless, "Tell me what you _gave!"_

No! I'd shouted in response. Teeth gnashing. Blood boiling. No great argument or intelligent words to offer up in response, no epic harangue or allocution. No! I can't! I can't do that!

Then tears had come, and it was even worse. He'd turned those blue-gray eyes up at me, beads of moisture trailing down his cheeks, chest already caught in a heaving spasm of a sob, and he'd whined out an easy, "Please, brother, _please,_" as if Edward was holding his heart in his hand and squeezing, squeezing, _squeezing._

And he just couldn't hurt Al anymore.

Body for a soul and soul for a body, I'd whispered. Feeling less proud and more ashamed at the sacrifice I had made. I didn't want to look at him. See his beautiful face twist into anger and hate.

But he hadn't even heard me, "What?"

I repeated myself, my eyes finding the carpet of the pale floor. My voice was clear and audible now. I ground the words out so loudly that they heart my ears. Knives. Arms. Push. Pull. Tear. Rip apart my heart. Please don't let him hate me. I'd do it again, if it was for him.

"I don't understand?" his puzzlement had stopped the sorrow that had clutched him moments before, and he said the three words in a way that almost felt as if he were questioning them as well, and now the tears fell quietly and almost unnoticed down his cheeks without a single sound.

I knew that he _did_ understand. He didn't understand, however, how the conclusion his mind had jumped to could possibly be the case. After all, he was talking to me, living, breathing, blood pumping through through veins, soul intact Edward Elric right now. He was probably horrified with himself that he had even humored that possibility at all, for even the slightest of seconds.

You're right, I tell him, I don't want to say it aloud, I mean, what you think I did. That's it.

"What do you think I think?" Al asked, his words sounding entirely like we were engaged in some sort of child's game, a silly mock argument to pass the time, but each syllable holding more fear than the next. I didn't want to say it aloud. But he had to hear it aloud. I knew what he wanted me to say. He wanted me to be wrong. To not know what he had been thinking. To reassure him that my life was whole, that I would not leave him, that I had somehow found a way to return him without sacrifice. Without giving anything. He was using his best I'm-still-trying-my-hardest-to-deny-it voice. It was a mouthful, and so was his tone. You could hear the break in his words as if he'd snapped them in two.

My soul for your body, I say, quiet once more. This time, though, he's listening so hard that he's the only thing in the world that hears me. And to him it's all too loud.

"What?" it's shock at first. Later it's anger. Then it's sadness. Then, somehow, it's acceptance, and he asks, "How long?"

And I say, how long was it for you?

"Three years then?" he asks, but it's nothing close to a question. There are no emotions now. They've formed a single file line and are all waiting their turns.

Yeah.

"That's not long enough," he whispers. He hugs me so hard it hurts my bones, and then he crumples.


	7. Those Three Years

_**Disclaimer: **_Owning Fullmetal Alchemist would be the awesomest thing in the entire world, but sadly, I don't. So I'll just have to settle for slightly less awesome things.

_**A/N: **_I'm such a bad updater! Thanks for all the reviews! I'm so glad you guys like my stories. And, I meant to mention this before, yes, all the sciency things I say in my stories are true. I'm very anal about it and if I include something like that I make sure I research it first. :)

* * *

_**Those Three Years...**_

...were the greatest three years of my life.

Al was back, we were home, and everything was perfect.

Al was sad. I was sad. Winry was sad. But we were happy too.

Like every great story, and my life was a pretty great story, it makes you feel all fluffy inside and then rips your heart to shreds and tears the organ straight away from your chest.

During gym class in grade school, there was never any order.

Tears it straight away from your chest. For Alphonse, it was metaphoric, for me, it was more literal.

There were just children, running in all directions, chaos, sweat, noise. Then the teacher would come in, and she'd blow her whistle and we'd all giggle and run over to her, pushing and shoving and chattering like birds, all trying to get to the same place at the same time. We'd calm down, slowly, staring at the teacher's passive face, she was waiting for us, watching us, patient. She was a pretty lady, who always wore shorts and always wore smiles, and when we were finally quiet, she crouched down and touched her neck with two fingers.

And she just looked at us. As if she were waiting for something, for someone. For someone to do something. So I crouched down, not sure if that was part of what I was required to recreate – and was I? – my fingers just brushing the tips of the green grass below me, and I placed two fingers on that spot on my neck. She looked at me, looked straight at me, and gave me a smile, approval, and all the other kids did the same as I had.

I couldn't tell you what her name was. She died the same year that my mother did. She had gone to Central to visit her brother who had come back from a rough military assignment that had lasted a very long time. She was so excited.

I waited for a long time, every breath through my lungs loud and blaring in my ears. Then I felt it.

A pulse.

It was quick and light, fluttering under my fingers. And I knew then, this wasn't just my heartbeat, my pulse, this was my life. There beneath my fingers. It would dance there until I died, and then it would stop, rest. Slow. End. Never again.

She never saw her brother. A car came around the corner too fast, the man in the driver seat had been drinking too fast. Everything was fast for a moment. The car. Her pulse. Her death. Then it was all over. A pulse. It stopped, slowed, ended. Her breath left her lungs and her brother cried. They sent him to Liore the next day.

He probably died there.

One day I felt my brother's pulse, and I knew that everything would always be great. Because Al would make it great.

I went to her funeral two weeks before my mother's. My mother cried. I don't know anymore if it was because her friend had died, or because she knew she was going to.

Would you cry if you knew you were going to die?

It was almost nice to have a date, an exact time. I'd always knew I wouldn't live long (I'd even shortened that time once), and when we began our quest, I began it with the full expectation that I may not survive.

All I'd ever wanted was to get Al's body back. To fix things. Broken. Alone. I'd make things whole again.

I did. So it was okay. Everything I'd ever wanted out of life. What more was there?

This was fine, I'd said, this is fine.

Then I'd cried because I was going to die.


End file.
